


Every Little Bit Hurts

by gayshitiguess



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: AU??, Angst, Art Theft, Au where they get a happily ever after, Blood, Hurt/Comfort, I write for myself and I love it, Juno loves it, Knives, M/M, Peter Nureyev is a sap, Peter and Juno are in love and nothing hurts, Stabbing, but very little to petey, emotional angst, future where they work it out and it's all good., give him kisses and blankets and pancakes, give him some affection, give my boy some love, kind of??, listen we give Juno so much good good hurt comfort, physical angst, please give peter nureyev some love, there Peter goes, thieving again, this was mostly for me to enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 07:19:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16403831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayshitiguess/pseuds/gayshitiguess
Summary: Peter was usually very, very careful never to come home to Juno hurt.Usually.Self-indulgent Peter-angst. Just... give me my boy back. I miss him.





	Every Little Bit Hurts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gayshitiguess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayshitiguess/gifts).



> Title from the Brenda Holloway song. 
> 
> Okay, so this was mostly just for me to bridge the gap between now and... whenever we get Peter back. I miss my boy and I needed to write some hurt comfort for him. I actually just got into Penumbra and I'm really excited to be a part of this fandom! Such good shit, right??? The whole Sarah Steel storyline just... got me, man. I'm really excited to post my first Penumbra story and I can't wait to post more! Come check out my tumblr gayshitiguess and gush about these sweet babes with me!! Enjoy!!

Peter was usually very, very careful never to come home to Juno hurt. That wasn’t to say that Peter didn’t take care of himself, on the contrary, he was really well versed in self-care. He had made a habit of not putting himself in the direct line of fire after he and Juno had made up and started their tentative relationship. His dear detective might be self-sacrificing, but Peter was far from it. He understood that his loss would now affect someone. It wasn’t a matter of ego, just a matter of fact. He knew that going on a job and dying would leave Juno to pick up the pieces. It was much easier to put himself in danger when he didn’t have someone waiting at home for him. 

 

Jobs on Mars became more frequent as well. While he never returned to Juno’s- their apartment during a job as not to bring danger to their home, he was able to stay in better communication with Juno when he was on world, as well as get home to him within two days of finishing the job. Details were never shared exactly so that Juno never felt guilty when a piece of art or precious heirloom went missing, but Peter kept him up to date on his status. He always prepared a schedule for Juno before he went on a job, detailing when it would be appropriate to call him, where he was staying which nights, and how many days to wait with no contact before it was appropriate to panic. Peter always allowed himself a few days to heal from any ailments that might have befallen him. He tried his very best not to use them. 

 

Peter had not been expecting the gallery’s security detail to be armed. He knew about their equipment and their schedules because he had gotten himself- or rather Reginald Shinn- hired as a seasonal guard for the arrival of  _ The Birth of Venus.  _ The painting was on loan from earth to Hyperion City’s gallery, and it was the only vulnerable moment the painting would have for the next twenty years. If Peter was to steal it, he had to steal it then. Dressed in the blue-grey uniform of the guard, his earrings, heels, and makeup abandoned in his hotel room, Peter was prepared for what should be a thirty-minute job. 

 

He didn’t expect the security detail to be armed because they weren’t meant to be. He didn’t know because this security was not from the gallery but from the actual owner of the painting. Of course, Peter knew of her, Ms. Baptiste, who had bought off the entirety of Italy’s public art collection when her husband died and she assumed his fortune. This had become a somewhat disturbing trend among the rich that Peter was doing his best to fight. He had slowly been stealing pieces of art that had once belonged to the public and sending them to his employer on Venus, outside of Baptiste’s domain, where they were put back in the hands of the people. He felt good doing this kind of work. Baptiste must have gotten wise to his habits, though, because as Peter approached the shift change, one of the exiting guards turned and wrapped his arm around Peter’s throat while the other drew a knife. 

 

This poor man thought he could beat Peter at his own game. He almost felt bad for them. They had no idea what they’d gotten themselves into. 

 

Peter took a moment to still his body before he tossed his head back and broke the nose of the man holding him with a satisfying crack. He flew back, releasing Peter and clutching at his nose, now gushing blood. Peter drew a knife and prepared himself to fight the other man. He charged at Peter too quickly and with too much warning. His rubber shoes squealed against the linoleum floor and gave him away. Peter caught his knife hand and plunged his blade into the man’s neck, cutting for the jugular and angling him away from  _ Venus,  _ as not to ruin the precious art. Peter was aware of the other trying to sneak up behind him. He turned his knife in his hand as he felt another blade meet the skin of his neck. He stabbed the man in the thigh and nicked the femoral artery. Instead of slicing Peter’s throat open, the man cut down, drawing a deep cut from Peter’s shoulder to his sternum. Peter bit down a cry and tried to turn to face him, but as he did, the man’s knife embedded itself in his abdomen. Peter couldn’t stop his cry this time, but he only hesitated for a moment before he plunged his knife into the man’s eye, spraying himself with blood. The man pulled the knife from his side as he went down, ripping a terrible, wet, sucking sound from Peter’s flesh. 

 

Oh,  _ fuck.  _

 

Peter didn’t have time to be careful anymore. He was running out of consciousness. He wiped his hands and his knife on his pants and cut the painting out of the frame. He was careful not to damage it too badly, but he watched as a drop of blood hit the ocean behind Venus. He cursed but kept working as his vision blurred and darkened around the edges. He rolled the painting up and packed it away in a cylindrical container, safely strapped on his back. 

 

Next order of business, the bleeding. Peter knew that he didn’t have much time, so he chose his easiest option. He pulled a lighter from his pocket, rolled up his shirt, and carefully met the flame to his skin. The pain was absolutely unbearable. It tore through him and Peter barely kept himself from crumbling to the floor and setting himself on fire. He gave himself exactly seven seconds to catch his breath and swallow his vomit before he started moving. 

 

Peter knew that he was covered in blood and couldn’t just disappear into a crowd, and he knew that going to the hospital was not an option. He couldn’t fix this by himself. He couldn’t see straight. He could barely keep himself conscious as he painfully climbed up twelve flights of stairs to the roof, where he had parked a speeder for an easy escape. Peter took a few moments on the roof to let the whipping wind snap him out of the blood loss and shock he was starting to dip into. He smacked his cheeks lightly with the back of his hands, took a deep breathe, and got on the speeder. 

 

Peter couldn’t say why he ended up outside of Juno’s living room window and not at his hotel where he could heal. He didn’t know why, in his dazed and confused state, he was snapping off the window lock and messily climbing inside. He hit the ground hard and loud, landing right on his side and reopening his barely closed wound. He cried out, cursing as he tried to apply pressure with his shaking hands. Juno didn’t like blood. His brain screamed at him to make the bleeding stop so that Juno wouldn’t have to see it. There was a shout from the bedroom and panic began to set into Peter’s steadily reducing blood supply. 

 

“What the hell?” Juno’s voice broke through his panic. “Nureyev, what’s wrong?” Juno’s hands were on his back, trying to guide him up, so Peter forced more pressure onto his wound. Juno didn’t need to see the blood, he didn’t want to upset Juno. Juno eventually guided him off on his knees to sit beneath the window. His eye grew wide when he finally got a good look at the wound. “Oh, god, Peter.” 

 

Peter’s heart clenched at the use of his first name, an unusual habit that Juno reserved for moments of great tenderness, anger, or passion. Peter couldn’t tell which it was this time, but he felt tears begin to prick into his eyes. He wanted to spit out some witty, smooth one-liner that would convince Juno that he would be fine with a bandage and a stiff drink, but all he could manage was; 

 

“I’m sorry.” 

 

Juno was on him in a moment, his hands replacing Peter’s where he needed pressure. Peter cried out and clutched blindly at Juno’s shoulder for support. 

 

“Why are you sorry?” Juno asked. “Jesus, Peter, this looks bad.” Juno seemed focused, calm, and determined. His hands were covered with blood and Peter was somewhere between hyperventilation and losing consciousness. 

 

“I-I-” Peter tried to find his voice, “there’s blood,” he finally got out. Juno scoffed and took off his sweater to try and staunch the flow of the blood. 

 

“Yeah, babe,” Juno said, “there tends to be when you get...” he took a moment to inspect the wound, “stabbed, I’d say. Try and stay calm for me, Peter, I think you’re in shock.” Peter’s breath shook as it entered and vacated his body. 

 

“You don’t-” his throat closed up and he had to stop to cough. Juno rubbed at his back until the fit passed. “You don’t like blood.” Peter finally got out. He tasted copper on his tongue. Juno’s eye met his. His smile was strained. 

 

“It’s okay,” Juno said, “I’ll throw up later. Let me get the suture kit.” Juno shifted to stand, but Peter clutched desperately at his arms, keeping him in place with what little strength he had. 

 

“ _ Please,”  _ Peter choked out, “please, don’t leave me again.” Peter watched Juno’s heart breath through blurry eyes. Juno said something, cupped Peter’s cheek, said something more. His eye grew wide as he realized that Peter wasn’t completely there with him anymore. Peter watched as Juno began to panic. And then he was falling, falling, farther and farther until nothing could touch him. 

 

__ 

 

Peter woke up warm. Too warm. He was sweating, absolutely drenched. Peter had never liked sweating. It made him feel dirty and he couldn’t stand feeling dirty. He knew that washing his hair every day wasn’t good for it and that he was drying out his skin, but he didn’t like the feeling of dirt and sweat clinging to his body. He didn’t like feeling like he couldn’t afford to be clean. ‘Dirty little boy,’ that’s what that woman with the pearl necklace had called him once when he asked for credits. But he had his own pearl necklace now that he never wore, but kept in his things just to prove that he  _ could _ have one. He hated the little reminders that he wasn’t always what he was now. They made him feel slimy and raw. So Peter lived with the fact that his hair lacked volume and bought expensive hand lotion that smelled like lavender. 

 

He opened his eyes slowly, but as soon as light hit his pupils, he was dizzy and nauseous. He closed them again and tried to breathe through the spell. His breath was shaky and light as it left his chest. Peter tried again. His vision was blurry this time, but he blinked past the spinning. He was lying on his back, staring up at Juno’s- their- water damaged ceiling. He’d been trying to do that more, call the apartment theirs instead of Juno’s. He had had a hard time laying claim to anything after he and Juno had found each other again. Peter had, of course, assumed that he had done something to push Juno away that night. He assumed that Juno’s promises were the products of adrenaline, malnourishment, trauma, liquor and good sex. He’d assumed that none of it meant anything. He thought that for a year before he found his way back to Mars for a job, and no matter what he told himself, he, of course, ended up at Juno’s office. No matter how hard he tried to stay away, Juno was like an exploding star and he, a tiny planet, drawn in by his gravity with nothing to do but to burn up and hope that he could find something in the ashes. 

 

Peter still wouldn’t say ‘I love you.’ He’d only said it that one time and that had backfired enough to keep him miserable for a year. He brought Juno flowers and took him on dates and wrapped his arms around him while they slept in case he tried to leave in the night again. And yeah, it was clingy, and yeah, he hated that he acted like that, but what was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to do but be paranoid that whatever he’d done he’d do it again and he wouldn’t have this? Peter had never had a home before. Peter had never had a shitty two-room apartment that he shared with someone he loved. He never had a place to keep his tea or to stock with spices or to put his shampoo besides a suitcase. He’d never had walls to paint or pictures to hang or a bed to make. He couldn’t lose it. Not now. 

 

He wouldn’t be homeless again. And that’s how he felt without Juno. 

 

He shifted and immediately regretted it. The skin around his abdomen stretched and strained against sloppy but efficient stitches. He could do them better himself, but he appreciated Juno giving it the old college try. He ghosted his heavy fingers over the messy line of too-tight skin. It wasn’t long at all, maybe two inches. There was a large patch of gauze taped over the cut on his chest. Juno had wrapped him up in every blanket that they owned and laid him out on their bed. Peter moved at a snail’s pace as not to strain his abused muscles. He screwed his eyes up as he sat up and worked past the pain. For as hot as he’d just been, chills started to creep through him. He wrapped one of the blankets over his bare shoulders. He was wearing a pair of Juno’s sweatpants that cut off in the middle of his calves and were too loose around his waist. He stood shakily, his knees not quite getting the hang of holding him up. After he’d taken a moment to steady himself, he moved slowly across the creaking floors and into the kitchen. 

 

Juno was cooking something. Peter loved when Juno cooked. Peter himself was rubbish at it. He always seemed to either uncook or overcook, under season or over season, and whenever he tried to pull a recipe off, they ended up ordering stir-fry from the Japanese place down the street. Juno, however, was superb. He brushed it off as something that he and Ben had learned when making food for themselves, and while Peter was sure that’s where it started, it was clear to him that it was a skill he’d taken the time to cultivate. The smell of butter, sugar, and flour mixing together told Peter that it was pancakes. He loved pancakes, especially Juno’s. They were light and fluffy and burnt just right around the edges. He caught one of the dining table chairs as he took in the smells. 

 

“Pancakes just for me?” He croaked out. His voice was dry and broken. “What a wonderful wife you will make for me.” 

 

Juno just about jumped out of his skin. He spun around from the stove and saw Peter. As soon as his eye landed on him, he softened. He put down his spatula and tossed his towel over his shoulder. 

 

“Whoa, there, Nureyev,” He approached with his hands extended, his secret mother hen surfacing. “You should be in bed. You lost a lot of blood. You were driving a speeder in shock and I’m surprised you didn’t die from a) the fucking knife wound, and b) the ride here. You scared the shit out of me.” Peter sucked in a harsh breathe. 

 

“I couldn’t possibly die and leave such a lovely lady all by himself.” His vision swam for a moment and he felt himself swaying. Juno’s hand wrapped around his elbow and Peter leaned into the touch. His knees didn’t so much give out as much as they sunk away from him. Melted and seeped into the cracks in the hardwood. Juno caught him before the ground did. 

 

“Okay, okay, Stabby McStabberson,” he said softly as he collected Peter’s long limbs in his arms. Peter felt safe there, pressed against Juno’s chest, sure in that he wouldn’t let him fall. He rested his head on Juno’s shoulder and tried to stay conscious. He wanted to kiss Juno. He wanted to be held. He didn’t know why, but Peter felt so fragile, so breakable. Not in a physical sense. In the kind of metaphorical, that was sometimes even worse. Anybody could break his fingers, electrocute him, stab him through, but barely anybody besides himself could break his him. His understood self was so assured and strong that nobody but him could deconstruct it. 

 

Well, Mal did. Juno did. Those weaknesses he had killed and fucked away. He hoped. 

 

Juno lifted him smoothly and carried him to the couch. He laid him down carefully and wrapped the blanket around him tightly. Peter smiled and let his eyes close. Juno bent over him and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. 

 

“I’m not leaving, Peter,” Juno said. “I’m not leaving.” He kissed Peter again, and Peter’s hand came up to meet his jaw. “I mean, we’re going to have to talk about why you think getting stabbed would make me leave, but I just wanted to establish...” Peter screwed his eyebrows together and tried to remember exactly what his thinking on that was. 

 

“I’m sorry for that.” He said finally. Juno sat on the floor next to him, rested his head on Peter’s arm and gently played with his hair. 

 

“There you go again, apologizing.” Juno’s voice was soft and kind. “It’s not your fault you got stabbed, Nureyev.”  Peter smiled and leaned into his touch. 

 

“I can’t quite remember the conversation,” Peter admitted, “but I think it had to do with the blood.” Juno blew a sharp breath out of his nose. 

 

“Yeah, that wasn’t a fun clean up.” Peter could imagine. Juno got uneasy at the mention of blood. He was sick when he had to smell it and he was debilitated for hours when he had it touch it. Peter did his best to keep Juno away from it. He made sure to slit throats around corners and hurry Juno past bodies. He took care of wounds and clean up. He just hated seeing the poor thing bent over a toilet after a night working. “But I wouldn’t leave you over a little blood. To be honest, I was so focused on taking care of you that I kind of didn’t even think about it. My whole hyperfocus thing and all...” Peter nodded. 

 

“It doesn’t make sense, I know,” Peter said. “It was the shock, I think. My mouth got away from me.” Juno was quiet for a moment. 

 

“I find that things like shock and alcohol make you kind of...” he searched for his words for a moment, “over-sharing.” Peter sighed. 

 

“I know you’re not going to leave me,” Peter said, and he wasn’t lying. “I know that as a fact. And I do not hold that night against you. I know that your decision to leave was a combination of fresh trauma and issues that you had been struggling to deal with long before I was around. I know that in fact. In my brain.” He flinched at how un-eloquent his word choice was. He couldn't help it. He had a headache, he was in pain, and his body was still fighting to give him blood. 

 

“But you doubt it somewhere else.” Juno filled in the blank. Peter wanted to deny it but couldn’t. 

 

“I don’t think that you’re going to leave me, and I care for you, Juno,” Peter said quickly. “But it’s like an instinct. Like muscle memory to try and hold onto you.” Juno tangled their fingers together. He felt hot tears fall on the crook of his elbow. 

 

“I’m sorry, Peter.” He said softly into Peter’s skin. “I’m sorry that I did this.” Peter ran his hand over Juno’s hair. 

 

“I’ve already forgiven you for it, darling.” He said. “It’s not fair for me to hold that against you. You leaving is not the part that’s the problem, that one was taken care of a year ago. The part that is the problem is my hesitance to trust.” He’d gotten better at telling Juno that it wasn’t always about him. Juno did better if he was given a more clear explanation than just that. His self-deprecating self-centeredness was something that Juno was getting better at. Peter was desperately proud of him for all of the work that he’d put in. 

 

“How can I help?” Juno asked, stroking Peter’s knuckled with his calloused thumb. 

 

“I don’t know,” Peter said. He felt dangerously close to crying and he had to remind himself that he was allowed to cry in front of Juno. He was safe. He let the tears fall. 

 

Juno kissed his cheeks and let him cry it out. He cleaned the stitches and applied antiseptic and wrapped his middle in a clean ace-bandage. He let Peter rest against his chest as they watched movies and ate pancakes and didn’t talk about anything that mattered too much. 

 

Peter stopped holding his breath. He stopped waiting for a punch to the gut. He relaxed. He exhaled. 

 

He had never been so happy to get stabbed before. 

 

Juno wrapped him in his arms when they laid down to sleep that night. Tucked carefully up in them, Peter felt better. Not good yet, certainly not. He still had that twinge of anxiety in his gut. But he could ignore it until he could deal with it. Juno kissed the top of his head as he started drifting off. The gentle up and down of his chest, the small snores that escaped him, the quiet mumbling of his dreams lulled Peter’s tired body into sleep. 

 

“I love you.” He whispered, and Juno didn’t hear him. 

 

“I love you.” He whispered, and Juno didn’t know. 

 

“I love you.” He whispered, and he’d say it again in the morning.


End file.
